


Sleepshirt

by amber_sword_lilies



Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, Hints to an Abusive Previous Relationship (In Prompto's Chapter), M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 02:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16507922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amber_sword_lilies/pseuds/amber_sword_lilies
Summary: The partners ask to borrow a shirt, and it has some unexpected effects on the boys...





	1. Noctis

He poked his head from the bathroom door, raven hair still dripping. His fine features were gathered in confusion. You only had to blink at him for a moment before he softened and shrugged.

“Yeah, I guess,” he mumbled and ducked back into the scents of soap and hot water. Even as he rubbed his hair dry with a towel, he couldn’t stop his tired mind from wandering. _Why does she need one of mine? She’s got her own; she was just wearing one! What’s wrong with that one?_

When he sauntered from the steam of the bathroom, he very quickly understood.

You were just about to fold yourself into bed. Throwing a gentle smile his way, you stopped under his stare. His face had gone blank, eyes fixed on you as he drifted through his thoughts.

It was a black dress shirt, well pressed and barely used. You’d never seen him wear it, so assumed he never would. The collar was starched stiff, half of the black pearl buttons left undone. He’d always hated it. He’d been made to wear it for an event that had been even more uncomfortable than the tailoring. But now…

Three strides and he was right in front of you.

“You look…”

His fine, pale fingers skimmed over the fabric, stopping at the lustre of a button. The shirt was exceedingly fine, but thick enough to offer modesty. He noticed his distraction and locked eyes with you. Deep sapphire, as telling as a raging sea, carried intent and passion to you in waves. His lips crashed into yours; a kiss that washed, ebbed, flowed and carried you on ecstatic currents…

Over the next few weeks, you noticed a sharp increase in the number of dress shirts he kept in the wardrobe… and their proximity to your own side.


	2. Prompto

“Uh, _yeah!_ Of course,” he grinned, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “It’ll be super cute, gotta get some shots of this and… lighting…”

As he trailed off, no doubt repositioning every lamp in the entire apartment for the millionth time because ‘lighting was one of those things you just had to get right’.

You dug around in the drawers, eventually settling on what you thought was a plain black t shirt. You’d barely tugged the hem to your hips when you heard his footsteps, padding closer to the bedroom.

“Hey, I thought we could run a few shots in this one and then…”

His broad smile shrank quickly. The rose petals in his cheeks fell away, shaken by some cruel breeze that made sky-blue eyes cloud. He looked… stiller. Sad, even. It was a rare look on him, but you’d seen it before. The dropped shoulders, still hands, sunken chest and overwhelming silence.

“Prom?” you whispered, moving your hand to cup his cheek. You did it slowly, just in case he flinched. He used to flinch so much, like every touch you gave him would burn. Over time, he’d settled, become sure that every touch was a soft one.  You’d struck a nerve in him and you weren’t sure why. You stammered out what felt like an apology.

“I can pick another one, if you want.”

He pulled his gaze from the shirt and looked at you, breathing a weak smile back into his face. After a few attempts it stuck, and spread back into a beam that made his eyes crease. Blond locks shook with his head.

“No, no it’s just,” he began, putting his camera on the drawers. “I remember getting that shirt.”

“Yeah?” You asked, running your fingers through his hair and breathing a sigh of relief at the colour returning to his cheeks.

“Yeah… Was the day I met Noct for the first time,” the corner of his mouth pulled into a crooked grin. He flopped down on the bed. “Well, the _second_ first time I met him, back in high school.”

You crawled into the bed, resting your chin on his chest. The shining curiosity in your eyes made him laugh a little. It was music, a song of utter relief for you.

“We- I had tickets for this really crappy concert downtown and guess who this loser managed to persuade to come with?”

And so you were told the story and shown the photos of the night two boys became friends through a mutual hatred for this one band, but somehow they still came away with ratty t-shirts.


	3. Ignis

He fixed you with a cool, questioning stare. Slowly, the focus of his gaze shifted from your face to the laundry basket. It was empty. You had plenty of clean clothes. Why did you need a shirt? _His_ shirt? _It’s not as if she has nothing else to wear. Why a shirt? What kind of shirt? Dinner shirt? Poet shirt?…_

You raised an eyebrow at his uncharacteristically slow response. Usually he didn’t miss a beat, but it seemed you’d knocked him for six.

_Silk shirt? Cotton shirt? Linen shirt? Oh, for goodness sake Scientia. You’re not even sure ‘shirt’ is a real word anymore, are you? She wants a shirt; why does she want a-_

_Oh._

_This was one of those couple things._

_Ah. Makes sense now._

“Of course,” he shook his head from the dizzying thoughts. You wore a slightly confused smile and slipped away to the dressing room.

He continued to shake his head, half-removing his gloves, half-wringing his hands. How could he have been so, well, Ignis. Always too perceptive; peering too far into the depths and ignoring the reflections and ripples of the surface. Settling into bed with a deep breath, he reluctantly pulled the report onto his lap. It may have only been a few dozen sheets of paper, but it felt like a brick. He resigned himself to reading over the first few pages again and trying to decipher his annotations from today’s meeting.

The sheets twitched at his side, thrown open somewhat carelessly. Eyes held to the stamped words and scratched notes, his head turned first, eventually followed by a pair of pale green hues that fixed on it. Navy silk.

In a flash, Ignis was on a Citadel balcony, hiding behind a plinth that supported a massive vase of flowers. The sour fire of her champagne laced his throat with snagging lace. The ragged breaths he fought to silence were a stark contrast to the smooth, clinging stain of lipstick. He’d finally managed to escape her clutches and he’d de damned if he allowed himself to be caught again. So, there he was, flat against the wall and staring out at Insomnia, wearing that blasted, frivolous shirt.

He still had no idea what had possessed him to buy it. It was a ridiculous thing. Silk, for one. How did one press silk to a crisp finish? That wasn’t even the worst of it; the inside of the shirt was lined with the most horrendous pattern of tiny flowers. He shuddered at the thought.

But now you were wearing it.

Within minutes, his resolve cracked. The report was unceremoniously dumped on the bedside table, along with clumsily folded glasses. Soft, pale lips were pressed insistently to skin smoother than the silk it wore. Deft hands worked the once-used buttons open again. You were the picture of innocent sin; lying under him, amongst the flowers of the open shirt. You were his nymph in the meadow; a cloudy deity on a sky full of stars.


	4. Gladiolus

He merely grunted, eyes racing over the lines of a new read. It had been one of those days, so the lack of proper response was both expected and accepted. He’d been up since ‘the ass-crack of dawn’, as he so fondly described it; had trained all morning; tailed after Noctis all afternoon and well into the evening during another stuffy royal event where he wasn’t allowed to join the festivities. Duty first, always.

You found yourself wondering when he’d last had a day off… and you couldn’t remember.

He was accepting of it, as always. What you saw as rolling with the punches, he saw as the tides of his every day; the rhythm with which he lived and breathed, the marching of his own heartbeat. ‘It’s not a job’, he’d said. He was right. It was a life.

A life in chains, whether he allowed himself to see them, or not. Six knew how long it’d been since he’d lived a day of his _own._

He was rubbing a bleary, dull eye when you passed back into the room. His head was beginning to nod, eyes fixed on the page. You shook your head. There wasn’t much else you _could_ do. Pressing your forehead to his temple, you breathed in the scent of him; cinnamon, leather and lemon oil. He hummed at the contact, head dipping lower with more purpose. His chin almost touched his chest before he snapped back up. Drunk from exhaustion, and he still tried to read.

The moment your lips pressed to his cheek, the words on the page blurred.

“Go to sleep,” you whispered, turning over to get some yourself.

You could feel his entire body tensing when he fell asleep too fast, as if he’d been dropped. The hand running through his hair was careless enough to be audible. With a final soft click, he turned his light off and shifted his weight in the bed, settling on his back with a hand on your hip, a sleepy thumb rubbing against the softness of your skin.

He jerked awake again, this time with a sharp intake of breath. You could hear his hair rubbing against his pillow as he shook his head. The mattress dipped as he shifted again.

A heavy arm slung itself over your waist. You reached out to gently stroke his forearm, lulling him to sleep as you traced the feathers. He buried his face in your hair, nudging the back of your neck with his nose. With a deep sigh, he relaxed. He began to take another, then paused, holding his breath.

He sniffed again, deeper, closer to the collar of the shirt you’d chosen. You could feel the smile against your nape.

Clear mountain air, as fresh as cold water, was filling his lungs; filling his nose with the musk of pine needles, the perfume of rain on freshly turned earth. He was wandering through a forest he’d visited years ago. Back when time didn’t exist. There was a breeze cupping his cheeks, dappled sunlight playing harmless tricks on his eyes. The ground was soundlessly soft under well-worn boots that walked with no real intention. He hadn’t worn that flannel shirt for years.

Tangled in your hair and weighed down by fatigue, he was free.


End file.
